“As opposed to what?” Benton’s voice was utterly calm.
“Alive, obviously,” I said. All at once, I recognized another possibility. “Or murdered.”
I realized Benton was the kind of man, the kind of lawyer, who was at his calmest in his moments of deepest anger—and he was angry now. “Why would anyone want to kill him?”
“I talked to your opposing counsel. He seems to think the deck was stacked, that the sex tape and the kid’s testimony were fabrications, along with most of the rest of your client’s evidence. Maybe Cho didn’t consider himself beaten. Or maybe someone miscalculated and left him with nothing left to lose.”
Benton found this laughable. “If Ma said that, then he’s an incredibly bad loser. It’s remarkable he’d think so, and even more remarkable he’d speak the thought aloud. He’s being sued, so I suppose he has to have some excuse. Lawyers will tell themselves—tell their clients—anything to avoid taking responsibility for their own mistakes.”
We were a few hundred yards from the marina, in a patch of still water. He brought the boat into the wind and started the engine, uncleated the mainsail and let it drop, gathering the slack and binding the sail around the boom with bungee cords. A seal surfaced a few yards from the boat, regarded me with black eyes beneath long lashes, then disappeared in a swirl of foam, slapping the water with one flipper as it went.
“Have you mentioned this theory of yours to anyone else?” he now asked.
I brushed the question aside. “So, Jordan and Cho. That’s two deaths associated with the Kairos trial. Clearly, there was a lot at stake. We’re talking public money, enormous contracts, the development of what could be the most expensive real estate in the country.”
Benton had to raise his voice over the rumble of the engine as he guided us into the marina. “Are you accusing my client of murder? Because if you make those kinds of accusations, you’d better be ready to back them up with proof. I don’t think you’d enjoy having to defend yourself from a slander suit.”
“I’m sure Jordan would admire your continued loyalty to your client. When I make that accusation, I’ll be ready to back it up. Don’t worry.”
He tucked the boat into the slip, throwing the engine into reverse at just the right moment to swing the bow against the dock. I was ready with the line as he instructed me, hopping down and wrapping it around a cleat. Then I did the same at the stern.
He tossed my sodden clothes at my feet. “You’ll have to find your own way out.”
Still wearing Benton’s borrowed clothes, gritting my teeth against the rush of cold air that cut into my flesh even beneath the fabric, I accelerated onto the bridge, thinking only of a hot shower back in my room.
As I rode along in the left lane—which was separated from the opposing ones by a series of widely spaced plastic pylons, nothing more—I glanced to my right. An SUV was drawing even with me in the middle lane. I gave it no more interest than I’d have given any large vehicle speeding along at sixty-five miles per hour. Its only slightly unusual feature was that its windows were tinted so darkly I couldn’t see inside. It stayed beside me for a moment, then began to draw ahead. But before its rear wheels had advanced past my front wheel, it abruptly swerved into my lane. At the same time the driver hit the brakes.
I reacted instinctively, tugging the left handlebar to steer past the SUV’s bumper. My bike skidded and to keep from laying it down I had to veer between two flimsy pylons into oncoming traffic. I made it across the first lane without being touched, feeling the buffeting shock waves of cars shooting past front and back. Horns blared and brakes squealed as the truck to my left swerved and sideswiped another car. At the same time, the car approaching on my right began knocking down pylons as it crossed into the eastbound lanes I’d vacated.
I saw a gap and gave the throttle a quick surge, crossing the remaining lane and driving the bike up next to the wall separating the pedestrian walkway from oncoming traffic. A truck was coming fast in my lane. Without room between the truck and the railing, I squeezed the front brake, slowing as much as possible, then bailed off and slid along the railing before flipping over it. I landed on my left shoulder on the cement walkway and kept rolling, hearing the crunch of chrome and metal as my bike was smashed, the semi’s horn blaring as I continued tumbling, only one-inch metal bars separated me from the white-streaked bay far below. A red post was suddenly in my field of view through my helmet visor. I felt a tuning-fork jerk, then my body whirled—and seemed to keep on whirling forever.
“A crossover motorcycle accident on the Golden Gate Bridge? It’s a miracle you survived,” Teddy said the next morning upon arriving at the hospital. Jeanie had brought him by but had stepped out, leaving us in the false privacy of my curtained-off bed.
I had a concussion, badly bruised ribs, and road rash on my shoulder and back. Even with a narcotic drip in my IV, the slightest movement was agony. Lying still was only marginally better, because then all my attention was on my splitting head.
“Feels more like a curse,” I told him.
“At least you’ve still got all your brains on the inside of your skull.”
He had a point there. Last time we were here together, he’d been a patient in the traumatic brain injury ward after being shot in the head.
“How’s it feel to be back?” I couldn’t help asking.
“It wasn’t easy walking in those doors. The smell, for one thing …”
I knew exactly what he meant: that distinctive odor of human sickness overlaid with antiseptic fluids and decaying flowers. Those had been long, very difficult weeks when first he’d hovered between life and death, and next slowly had to face the dawning reality of his diminishment. I knew my brother and understood he’d rather die than live in a dependent state. Yet, though his impairments remained significant, he’d managed to achieve a recovery beyond all medical expectation, and he was now grateful for each new day.
“You get to walk out of here,” I said. “Just keep reminding yourself of that.”
“I told you you were going to kill yourself on that bike. Jesus, an accident like that!” He shook his head again in disbelief.
“It wasn’t an accident.”
That got his attention. “You’re not saying … “
“No. My God. You think I’m going to kill myself after all we’ve been through? Somebody tried to kill me. A black SUV with tinted windows came up behind me, then deliberately cut me off. I had no choice but to go over into the opposing lane.”
Now his face was dark with fury. “Wilder. He’s been having you followed?”
“I don’t think so.” And it was true. I didn’t.
Instead, I explained to him as well as I could about my meeting with Benton and the theory I was developing that Jordan had been murdered not by Rodriguez, and not because her defense of him had attracted the attention of a psychopath, but because of what she’d inadvertently learned during the course of the Kairos trial. I added that Gary Cho might have been murdered, too.
“By whom?” Teddy asked, his voice sharp.
I had to admit I didn’t know. “Benton’s client, I guess.”
“What about Benton? You’re saying he and Jordan were having an affair?”
“It’s likely he tipped someone off in advance about our outing today, but that’d be the extent of his involvement. I doubt he was behind it. He’s just a lawyer working for a client, keeping himself useful and therefore employed. My sense is he’s as distraught about what happened to Jordan as I am but doesn’t see a way out.”
“See no evil, hear no evil, you mean.”
“It’s not so different from what we do, is it?”
He shook his head, making a face.
“It’s not so different from what you used to do,” I said, making my point clear.
Teddy looked away. “But I don’t have any blood on my hands,” he said unconvincingly.
“That’s probably what Benton tells himself. Promise me you won’t go to work
for Bo Wilder. You’ve got to promise.”
“Okay,” he answered. “I won’t.” But he wasn’t convincing now, either.
Lying there, however, I lacked the energy to press the point, and so changed the subject instead. “I may need Car’s help,” I told him. Car’d been my brother’s investigator originally. Since I hadn’t heard from Nina, having hired her and given her the information her guy should have been able to use by now to find Roland McEwan, it looked like time to try a different approach.
“Car’s not going to want to get within ten miles of this problem again. Anyway, it’s not just finding your old client. It’s getting the dude to talk. If Wilder put him up to passing that gun to you, then he isn’t going to say a word unless Bo gives him the order.”
“I don’t want to hear that.” I closed my eyes tight as the spike in my blood pressure made the pain in my head grow suddenly piercing, followed by a wave of nausea that left me in a cold sweat.
“Look, you need to rest. I’ll have a talk with Car. Try not to worry. You need to get well again before you can even start to think about taking care of business.”
I gave Teddy all the information he needed, telling him where to find the contact information for the former client in the files in my storage unit in Berkeley. He carefully wrote down Roland McEwan’s name, the number of the locker, and the combination for the lock.
Talking had worn me out. I kept flashing back to my hospitalization after the shooting last summer, when time itself had seemed to expand and contract with the cycles of pain and narcosis. I tried to keep my eyes open for Teddy’s sake, wanting to show him I was still in control, but the next time they opened, he was gone.
I was released after two days. Still suffering bouts of dizziness, I wore a compression bandage around my ribs, had a sling over my shoulder, and was provided with a vial of Percocet. Somehow, armed in this manner, I was expected to face the world.
Look on the bright side, I told myself. No one’s tried to kill you in the last twenty-four hours.
I took a cab to the Seward. When the weekend guy saw me his face lit up, seemingly as if in approval of my battered condition. Previously, he’d made it clear he viewed me as an unwelcome harbinger of gentrification—which, no doubt, I was.
On my floor, the hallway bulbs nearest my room were burned out, allowing me to see a glimmer of light beneath my door. I went rigid. It’d been three days since I was home. Maybe I’d left the light on and forgotten, I told myself, but I knew better.
I considered backing away and leaving, calling the police, but I suddenly felt so tired. If they wanted me, they were going to find me eventually. It might as well be here. Moving gingerly to spare my ribs, I fit the key into the lock and quickly turned it. I stepped to one side so I wouldn’t be silhouetted in the door when it opened, then peeked around the jamb.
“Hey there, kid.” My father lay on my bed, hands behind his head, wide awake. Before I’d come in he must have been staring at the ceiling the way he’d spent innumerable long nights in prison. Now he’d turned and was gazing at me.
“So you’re the reason the guy downstairs was smiling,” I said, trying not to breathe too hard because of my ribs. “How much did you give him to let you in here?”
“A hundred bucks.”
“I thought somebody was waiting up here to kick my ass.” I came in and closed the door. “How long have you been back?”
“A couple of hours.” He rose, seeming about to clasp me by the shoulder, then seemed to consider my damaged condition and held back. I stepped to the dresser to empty my pockets of keys and phone. Lawrence sat again on the bed.
“So at least the police didn’t pick you up at the airport.”
“Maybe my return caught them by surprise. I came here because I heard you were in the hospital again. A motorcycle accident? I called Teddy as soon as I landed, and he said you were being released today. I figured I’d wait here instead of showing up at the hospital. Just in case the cops are looking for me.”
“Someone cut me off on the Golden Gate Bridge. I ended up in oncoming traffic.”
“A black SUV with dark windows, I hear.” He’d been studying me and now announced his verdict. “Recent injuries aside, you look almost yourself. A hell of a lot better than last time I saw you. Though that’s not saying much.”
I’d still been fifteen pounds underweight when he left the country after the fire. Since then, I’d gained back ten. “I’m fine,” I told him. “We’re all fine.” I was so glad to see him I could have wept, but my eyes were dry, as always. The many things that couldn’t be said seemed to expand to fill the room, leaving not enough air.
“Look, I haven’t been able to get in touch with Bo yet. Now that I’m back in the country, it shouldn’t be so complicated. At least if I’m here I’m the one who’ll be in danger—”
“I don’t want you to get in touch with him on my behalf,” I said, cutting him off. “This wasn’t about him. This is something else I’m mixed up in.”
“Something else,” my father repeated.
“A friend of mine was murdered.”
“I heard about that. By your client, I thought.”
I slowly shook my head. “Dad, it was a setup. I think Jordan was killed by a client, just not one from the public defender’s office. You ever hear of a company called Kairos?”
Predictably, he hadn’t. Realizing I had no choice but to talk about it, I told my father everything I knew, concluding with my suspicions regarding Jordan’s death. I also told him about Cho going missing after the trial, evidently a suicide.
“Tomorrow I’m thinking about paying a visit to his wife.”
“If what you say is true, they’ll likely be watching her. What can I do?”
I told him the most helpful thing would be for him to assist Car in finding Roland McEwan. His agenda in providing me with the gun hadn’t occurred to me at the time, and now it was too late. Still, it was a piece of the puzzle I needed to have.
“Is Dot with you?” I asked, changing the subject.
“She’s back on home soil, yes,” he replied tersely. Then, himself switching subjects, said, “Buy you a drink?”
His tone made clear that he didn’t want to talk about it. I swallowed a Percocet and we went out for beers.
Chapter 18
Lawrence’s Harley, kept in storage during his absence and now retrieved, was the tangible symbol of his freedom. After we’d had a few drinks he talked me into accompanying him to the garage where he’d left the bike for the evening, on the pretext that I was newly in need of a replacement and ought to consider springing for a hog like his. After he gunned it down the ramp, leaving me to hobble home alone, I went back up to my room and spent a long night lying with gritted teeth, the bands of pain tightening around me every time I breathed, fire spreading from my battered ribs and abraded skin.
I spent the next two days mostly in bed washing Percocets down with beer. Still, I had time to make a few calls. My first was to Rebecca at the PD’s office, letting her know what I’d learned from Walter Hayes. I asked her to check around, to see if any public defenders had cases out of Double Rock involving private security guards. She also promised to check with a few housing attorneys she knew.
The next morning Rebecca called me back. In a tone of surprise, she told me that the story I’d heard appeared to check out. She’d talked to two lawyers handling felony charges for clients who claimed to have been attacked by private security guards who’d shot first, engaging them in gun battles before the SFPD showed up. She’d also managed to confirm that in the housing projects scheduled for demolition, evictions and citations were through the roof.
I called Hayes and reported what I’d learned, passing on the names of the defendants and the phone numbers of the PDs handling their cases.
The following morning, I flushed the rest of the Percocets down the toilet and resolved to make contact with Cho’s wife.
A woman’s voice answered when I tried t
he number I’d managed to unearth. She was breathless, as if she’d run to grab the phone.
“This is Leo Maxwell,” I said.
“What! Don’t ever call this number again.”
The line went dead.
The database where I’d found her gave me a Portola Valley address. It’s a mountainside community on the peninsula, per capita one of the richest places around. I’d often ridden my road bike along the byways that wound across and along the peninsula’s spine: Skyline Boulevard, Alpine Road. Many of the most scenic segments were through Portola Valley and its environs. After my wreck I was in no shape to ride my bicycle, which would have been my preferred means of approach—spandex being a universal badge of harmlessness—so I had no choice but to rent a car if I wanted a closer look.
I picked up a Ford Focus, the cheapest no-frills option at any of the rental agencies near the Seward. One of these days soon I’d have to settle on a new set of wheels, and also a real apartment. On the other hand, I saw no point in forking over first and last months’ rent until I was reasonably certain of living through a one-year lease.
When I reached Portola Valley, forty minutes south of San Francisco, I located the Cho house without much trouble. Lydia had declared bankruptcy, and the house was on the market, I knew from my research, though no realtor’s sign marred the view. Above its flat roof the wooded foothills rose to gentle heights. It was Thursday afternoon, and there didn’t seem to be anyone around other than the perennial landscape crews.
I couldn’t expect to sit for any length of time in such a neighborhood without attracting unwanted attention. In addition to Lydia’s phone number and addresses, LexisNexis had given me the make and license numbers of the couple’s vehicles—a BMW 5 Series sedan and a Volvo station wagon. I made one slow pass around the cul-de-sac, saw the carport with only one car, the Volvo, sitting in it, and drove back out the way I’d come.
On the way in I’d noticed that a hiking trail crossed the hillside just above the road where the Chos’ house was. I parked my car at the Portola Café Deli and hiked back to a spot with the right vantage point. Lounging on the path like a hiker taking a rest, I didn’t have to wait long before a BMW with the correct license number appeared, a woman at the wheel.
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